Trophy
by njhill22
Summary: All had been lost and there was no hope left. This is an account of the first three years through the severely aloof perspective of the defeatist...the now esteemed prize of the victor.


Three years…that's how long ago it had happened. I was twenty-one when the final battle ultimately came to pass.

I can remember the exact moment. My one moment of weakness, it was merely a second.

I heard my fiancée call my name and I averted my eyes from my own battle just in time to see the bolt of green light hit her shoulder, sending her lifelessly to the ground.

That's when I felt the end of a wand digging into my throat…that's when I knew I had failed.

Voldemort took my wand into his possession and was about to kill me with it. As I stared at the end, which was pointed directly at the scar that had started it all, I could sense the sadistic change in air.

He tortured me to the point of unconsciousness and I woke up in a cell, shackles around my wrists and ankles that confined my movement to mere inches.

In hindsight, I should have begged for death.

For those that had survived the final battle, they would show up weekly in the cells around mine. Hiding at this point was useless, the Death Eaters would say, Voldemort had taken over practically the entire wizarding and muggle world by now. Most of them didn't last long. If they refused to convert their ideals, they were typically killed on the spot. 

For the ones that I happen to personally know, I got to watch them be tormented for hours, sometimes days, before they were finally killed. Watching Tonks was the worst. She was one of the last ones to be captured and they kept her alive for almost a week. The last day she was kept under the Cruciatus Curse until she was mentally incapacitated. I would have put her out of the misery myself if I had my wand, but Voldemort was using it alongside his own ever since he had taken it from me that fateful day.

He made sure to tell me himself that the wands worked quite nicely together.

As for the muggles, they were brought in for experiments. Voldemort was quite interested to know how two muggles were capable of producing a magical offspring. Eventually a mutating gene was discovered and that's when the real experimentation began.

Most of the subjects didn't survive the first round of testing, and for those that did, they quickly wished they hadn't. Voldemort soon grew bored with the muggles and sent them all to concentrations camps.

I have been told that their suffering goes beyond mine. If that is the case, I rather not fathom what happens in those camps.

I wouldn't be able to tell you how different the world looks today, because I only see the outside for maybe half an hour a day. Since Voldemort had decided against killing me, he elected to use me as an example to what resistance was still left, then when they were gone I was merely a tourist attraction and entertainment for the locals. There were even days allotted for spectators to cast whatever curse they wanted at me.

The only rules were that I had to be alive and still mentally intact by the end of it.

Public showings of torture were the daily norm. The crowd favorite quickly became when Voldemort would hold me under the Cruciatus Curse until I was too weak to move. I could always hear them chanting for him to kill me, but he never obliged. When the audience was allowed to participate, they would normally send something that knocked me across the holding cage, sending me crashing into the bars, typically breaking some bones.

I eventually learned not to scream.

Voldemort had banned the spectator activity for a few months after a small child set me on fire. Their participation resumed as soon as any manifestation of the scars had been healed by doctors.

It took me awhile to figure out why Voldemort would bestow the privileges of life, mental capability and full medical attention to me…

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My only real solace my first year in captivity were my memories. I would spend hours upon hours wrapped up in whatever daydreams I had decided to create. From what little I can remember of them, they usually entailed my fiancée.

I can't even remember her name.

The only reason I know we were engaged is because of a memory of an argument we had where she threatened to give the ring back and call off the wedding.

Apparently the sheer mention of her name sparked too many positive emotions in me.

I know there were times in my life when I felt the emotions described as 'happy', 'love' and 'content', but now I lack any understanding of them. From what I do comprehend, they end up bringing you nothing but misery. You see, Voldemort wasn't pleased when he found me with a smile on my face during one of my daydreams. Using my wand, he wiped any memory bearing any semblance to any of those emotions from me.

I do remember pleading with him not to, I was even in tears.

I just wish I remember why I thought it was so important.

Soon after my memory clearing is when I was moved from the dark recesses of the cell to my now permanent dwelling.

I reside in a clear, Plexiglas…container is really the best way to describe it. There are about five steps I can take before reaching the opposing, lucid wall. My container is in, what I refer to as, the trophy room, surrounded by many of Voldemort's conquered, not to mention dead, adversaries, along with a few scattered plaques of other various achievements. Most notably the killing of the last known spy, Severus Snape.

It turns out Snape had actually been on the good side, he had even tried to help me escape. We had been planning it for weeks, he would come down to my cell and release me from the shackles and then direct me to Voldemort's quarters where I would kill him. Unfortunately, Voldemort had used Legilimency on me that morning and learned of the plan, then took away my ability to speak so I would be unable to give warning.

Needless to say, Snape wasn't breathing for much longer after freeing me from the shackles.

That was really my only hope of escape since I was kept immobile most of the time in the cell. In all honesty, I lost any resolve I had left after the Snape incident and never attempted to break out of the container I was put in.

I did, however, attempt to end my life on a few occasions.

Near the beginning of the second year, Voldemort had decided to up my daily food intake since I was looking quite emaciated by then. I was so close to death from starvation that I refused to eat. I should have known that the Imperious Curse would be utilized to force my cooperation. When I could finally be trusted again, I would be left alone in the confines of my container to eat what was provided.

I immediately took advantage of the unaccompanied meals and used the fairly sharp knife to cut down on my wrists until I hit bone. I almost succeeded that first time, but I assume they found me sometime after I passed out, for I woke up in an actual bed in what I can only presume was a hospital. Blunted knives were the proxy, but that did not hinder my attempts. I went for any major vein I could think of with whatever utensils were the least dull, which quickly resulted in full replacement with plastic-ware. 

Consequently, I stopped trying to end my life with the utensils and found myself nearing my body composition prior to my downfall.

This is when I finally came to realize why Voldemort conferred such basic human rights to me. He wanted me in the best condition possible given the elements I was living in. He wanted me to look decent enough to show off and be able to brag about it. Presenting a gaunt, frail version would not look as impressive. In essence, he wanted me to closely resemble how I looked the day I was defeated.

Upon this realization is when the final stages of my mental deterioration to its now distant state commenced. I just stopped caring.

I no longer wondered what was to become of me, for it was now apparent that I was going nowhere anytime soon. 

I ceased in coming up with innovative ways to end my life after it became quite evident that there was no way Voldemort was going to let me die or be damaged, for I somehow recovered from the massive head trauma I caused myself after managing to get to the top of the container and letting myself fall head first to the ground. 

I recently stopped thinking about my past. The memories I was greeted with each time made me appreciative of my present circumstances. It seemed that the people that I dubbed friends and significant others were burdens and brought me nothing but annoyance, discontent and despair.

I have come to actually prefer my current showcase status rather than be put through the plague of interpersonal relationships.

I suppose being on display isn't so bad, it could be worse. And trust when I say that I know much worse. Much worse would be enduring more than my required daily thirty minute public appearances. Speaking of which…

It's that time of the day again, a time that I once dreaded. It's the time of the day where Voldemort shows me off to everyone. For I no longer am known as Harry Potter. I am his winnings, his triumph, but foremost…

I am his trophy.


End file.
